


Ameliorate

by HouseOfFinches



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Romance, Slow Build, but it will get there, no immediate smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-17 23:49:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14200305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HouseOfFinches/pseuds/HouseOfFinches
Summary: Wanda and Vision meeting up after the events following the Raft.Eventual smut?Basically what I’m writing until Infinity War comes out.





	1. Chapter 1

He watched the cold air whip the hair that escaped her hood, the reddened locks striping her face, shrouding whatever expression she wore. Her jacket was large, bulky and dark against the dusting of snow.

The town was old, muted cobble stone and smooth brick. The clouded sky drained all color, leaving the buildings gray, a murky melding between air and ground. He summoned her here, in this city that was small enough to be obscure but large enough to go unnoticed.

He wasn’t sure she’d come, wasn’t sure he could handle the coldness of her once-warm affection. To say things had gone south since the Accords would be an understatement: consequences of the Avengers’ conflict still rippled through the continents. And his separation from Wanda still stung like new, the edges raw with uncertainty and guilt. How could she ever forgive him?

He approached her in the city square, the evening rush of pedestrians a slow stream of blurred faces and drawn up collars. She was looking toward the horizon, her gaze a practiced indifferent but for her eyes: she stole glances at the figures that passed her, each a quick assessment until she moved onto the next face.

He drew close to her, close enough to be heard but far enough to respect her space, to acknowledge that he deserved this distance, this void.

“Wanda,” he called quietly, half afraid to face her, half desperate to hear her voice, to see her eyes looking up at him.

She went still at the sound of her name, fixing her gaze forward. A moment passed before she turned to look at him, staring intently at his eyes, her brows pulling together in subtle confusion.

“I’m sorry, you have the wrong person.” She offered a small smile, friendly but guarded, before returning her sight forward, stealing one last glance at his eyes.

He considered that she may not recognize him, that his disguise of human-pink and beige flesh would camouflage him even from her discerning examination. Yet there was a flame of embarrassment, a searing bitterness that his _otherness_ prevented even _her_ from seeing through this mask.

He reached out to touch her hand, then withdrew his fingers. His muscles remembered her, the way her delicate fingers twined with his, the softness of her skin. His heart hadn’t yet spoiled the memory, hadn’t let this separation known to the neurons there. The ache in his chest grew heavier.

The air was sharp in its frigidity, their breaths mingling in little clouds before being lost to the wind.

“Wanda, it’s me,” he said more firmly, holding back the apprehension that threatened to break his voice.

She turned to him again, the strands of her hair wild in the breeze. Her eyes were on his, her study a severe observation that made him shift his weight with its intensity.

He watched as realization broke across her face, the way her glower bloomed into something surprised, perhaps even happy. She took a step forward before seeming to catch herself, her expression faltering back into that neutral she reserved for strangers. The gap between them was a chasm, a void filled with her indifference, salt in the wound.

“ _Vision_?” she asked in a high pitched whisper, looking over her shoulder before returning her eyes to his. She drew her lip between her teeth, the habit as old as their friendship. She was nervous. He wasn’t sure how to interpret that.

“I had to see you.” It was the truth, as selfish as it was. “Did Mr. Rogers happen to explain..?”

“No. All he told me was that someone wanted to meet me here. I wasn’t sure if it’d be you.” She stepped closer to him now. He could feel the heat trapped between them, yet the distance taunted him, the ache to touch her held back only by the shame that welled in his chest.

She looked different somehow, in a way he couldn’t entirely explain. Obviously her hair had been dyed but there was something in the set of her jaw, the fine lines that creased around her eyes that seemed new, foreign. She had changed and he wasn’t there to witness it.

“How are you doing that?” She looked at him pointedly, gaze seeming to take him all in, as if looking for a fault, a crack in the facade.

“Do you mind if we find somewhere more private to talk?” He glanced around them, noting the dusk looming on the horizon. The passers-by had all but stopped, save for the brown-coated stragglers.

“There’s a little cafe a few blocks from here?” It was a question, an invitation, and he lept at the chance to have her to himself. Her nose and cheeks were flush in the wake of the wind, and as much as he’d like to pull her close, to cradle her head against his chest in the name of warmth, he would have to settle with simply moving indoors.

 


	2. Chapter 2

  
Acoustic guitar thrummed softly from tinny speakers, drowning out the conversations of the few other patrons in the cafe. Strings of lights were draped along the ceiling, casting the shop in a warm amber glow. It was a slow night, if the empty tables were any indicator. He was grateful for the privacy.

Wanda led them to a small table towards the back, hidden from view yet open enough to take in the sight of the darkened city. The street lamps hadn’t yet come on, leaving the cobbled roads in inky shadows that crept towards the sidewalks.

She removed her coat, hanging it lopsided over the back of her chair. He followed suit, enjoying the familiarity of the motion, the removal of the layers between them. Her clothes were simple, layered and warm. She blended in with the people here, he thought, a reflection of the hills, muted greens and simple textures. Something like jealousy colored his emotions.

The barista came for their order, an older woman who seemed too energetic for the atmosphere. Wanda ordered two coffees for them while settling into her seat.

A charged quiet hung heavy in the air between them. He took the opportunity to take her in fully, to see her without the distraction of the wind and the people.

He watched as her fingers drummed silently along the table, bare of their metal filigree and black polish. Gone too was the coal that normally lined her eyes, making her appear younger and older all at once. Funny that her camouflage was becoming bare, raw and exposed to the world in a way he’d only seen her when they shared a bed.

“So...” she began, leaning forward, eyes intent. “Explain?” She looked at him, eyes wide, expectant.

Had he always been so aware of her proximity to him, the way his skin felt electric the closer she drew? It was dizzying, the way his fingers ached to feel her pressed against him. It took him longer to respond than it should.

“I’ve been practicing, in a way. It’s similar to the clothing I wear, I suppose, but much more complicated. I wanted the chance to see you in public without drawing att—“

“To see me? In public?” She stared at him, a hard edge in her eyes. “You know I’ve been locked away in a prison for weeks?” She sat back against her chair, arms folded over her chest, the space between them cold and distant.

“I—“ he began before seeing their drinks making a hurried stop at their table. Both he and Wanda offered a weak smile as the barista dropped off their coffees, her sneakers loudly squeaking as she scurried back to the bar.

Wanda relaxed into the heat of her cup, her shoulders dropping as the steam rose. He was happy to see that some things never changed.

“Mr. Rogers really didn’t offer you any information regarding your escape?”

“Is there something about it I should know?” Her voice was hard again but her fingers remained laced around her mug, her eyes intent on his.

He couldn’t help but lean closer to her, his body as drawn to her as ever, its own magnetic force.

“I may have had a hand in orchestrating the event,” he stated, enjoying the way she was leaning in now too. Maybe her body hadn’t forgotten his, hadn’t left him to be forsaken without her touch after all.

“Are you expecting a reward?” She said, tone snide and hushed against the droning guitar. “Do you want me to congratulate you for doing the right thing? None of us should have been there. No one deserves that place.”

And she sat straight in her chair again, hands holding the cup to her lips as she stared out the window, looking anywhere but at him, a severance he felt at the core of his being.

He deserved this, all of this and more. The loss of her eyes on him, the space between them was the price he was to bear.

“Please, Wanda...” It was all he could do not to beg in the middle of the silly shop with its bad music and normal, unburdened people. What he wouldn’t give to have that life, that chance with her—something slow and easy and light. But here they were, hashing out the descrepancies of a just moral code rather than bickering over the shopping.

He couldn’t help but sigh. His stomach turned with the recognition that somethings were irreparable, that maybe the damage he’d inflicted was too big a chasm to cross no matter how much rope of affection he offered.

They sat in silence while she drank her coffee, her elbows gradually coming to rest on the table, her gaze absent. He caught himself fidgeting with a packet of sugar, anxiety gnawing too strongly at his stomach to compel him to drink.

“I didn’t think I’d see you today,” she sighed, offering a small smile as she stared up at him through her lashes.  
“I certainly didn’t expect to see you like this.” Her expression shifted, turning serious with the tilt of her head.  
“It’s still you, somehow, but so different.”

“Do you like it?” The gnawing in his stomach grew stronger. Rationally he knew he couldn’t blame her for liking it—humans were meant to be attracted to other humans, to the beings that looked like them. And yet a stinging voice lapped at his ego, reminding him of his otherness, his short comings in all ways that related to her.

“I do like it, I think.” She leaned closer. “But I don’t prefer it.”

He followed her glance to a nearby table where two women sat quietly chatting amongst themselves. One of the women giggled as Vision turned to see her.

“Have you noticed a difference in the response you get from others?” She asked, returning her eyes to his, a teasing grin ghosting her face.

He felt himself blush.

“I hadn’t, no.” It wasn’t entirely true. He had been able to blend, to get lost in the sea of other bodies without drawing attention to himself. Though he hadn’t yet considered that this visage may bring about a different sort of attention. It made him uncomfortable.

She fished out a few stray bills from her pants pocket and set them on the table.

“My treat,” she insisted, looking over at his untouched cup.

“I have a room a few blocks from here,” he suggested. “There is a lot more to discuss, if you’re up for it?”

“And there’s no one there waiting for you?” She questioned. “Does Tony know where are you are?”

“Mr. Stark has been... less involved in matters as of late. And no, this is a solo visit.”

She considered his offer for a moment before standing.

“Alright,” she agreed, and it was the lightest he felt in weeks.


	3. Chapter 3

The freezing air began to warm as a spring front settled into the night. Snow melted from the rooftops, dripping like rain into puddles around them. The sky felt busy with electricity, the current of change tangible in each breath, in each breeze. She felt it against her skin, in the small bouts of his laughter, a crackling in the space between their bodies.

It was easy to slide into this familiar routine, walking next to him, listening to his interpretation of the world she used to find so gray. Yet her heart demanded recognition, a reconciliation for the pain she’d endured.

She made her choices—she knew that when she broke the ground below him, a gentle push for distance, all things considered. She’d drawn a line in the sand knowing that her heart lie on the other side. She knew there would be consequences. But she hadn’t anticipated the way war would break between the two ideals, a fissure of righteousness fueled by stubborn personalities. She hadn’t known he would stand idly by as they chained her like an animal, reducing her to the basest thing she’d known: weakness.

Did he know now, the collar of pre-emptive electricity they made her wear? Did he finally come around to seeing Tony’s hypocrisy? It wasn’t all Tony’s fault, she reasoned, but there was something to be said about Tony's desire for restraint only to rebel against it when restriction became inconvenient.

Walking next to Vision now, in his mask, was surreal. Her heart twinged with the memory of Pietro, of the way they would aimlessly walk the streets late at night, plotting their plans of revenge and glory.

People walking passed them thought nothing (she checked). The tall man walking next to the orange haired woman were utterly normal, non-descript but for the way they were distinctly _not touching_. She couldn’t help but smile.

He stopped at her side, his blue eyes shadowed in the dark, staring at her. She thought she saw him lift his hand to touch her, only to decide against it, fingers restless at his side.

“What?” She asked, the pause in his stride pulling her from that relaxed reverie, submerging her consciousness back into the moment, back into indecision.

“You were smiling,” he said, voice quiet against the water drumming along stone. He was smiling in response, the expression incredulous, as if he’d never seen a woman smile before. She felt heat stain her cheeks at his study.

“How much farther is it?” She changed the subject, turning on heel to hide her face from his. Her muscles remembered him, automatically calculated the stretch to drape her body against his, to press her lips against him. She willed herself calm, damning the fibers that wished to betray her.

“It’s just around the corner,” he gestured, resuming his pace along her. They walked in silence, the patter of their heels a simple tempo accentuated by the bass of cascading water.

He led them to an old building, the front lined with white doors, paint too fresh for the neighborhood.

“Here it is,” he said, retrieving the key from his pocket while looking at her, brows pulled together in a way she didn’t recognize. A sadness touched his eyes, barely perceptible, before the door clicked open.

The small doorway led to a flight of narrow stairs, lit by small hanging bulb. She followed behind as he went ahead, grateful that the heating was turned up.

The flat was large, a studio lined with glass windows overlooking the sleepy street. Vision clicked on the small lamp standing in the corner, its glow tawny against the dark of the walls.

“It’s nice,” she said, looking around, taking in the luxe curtains and heavy bedding. “Looks expensive.” It was a statement, it was a question, one of many that were burning at the forefront of her mind.

He shrugged, a decidedly human gesture, one that suited him as easily as it felt out of place, new and unfamiliar. His life had gone on without her, even in small ways, and that knowledge pulled at her stomach and stung at her eyes. It was irrational to be mad at him for changing, everyone changed, but still her heart pleaded its case, wanted to release this emotion she couldn’t name.

He made his way to the small kitchette, running water to fill the electric kettle before offering to take her jacket.

He hung his coat next to hers. She’d seen him in blue before, the navy of his sweaters accentuated by the tone of his skin. But this was new, the cream of his flesh, the paleness of his hair. She’d never imagined what he might look like if he were human, and she never would have pictured how vulnerable it made him appear.

He was still _him_ , broad shouldered, inquisitive-natured, but there was something weathered, something insecure in the pull of his mouth that she was sure hadn’t been there before.

The stillness of the night felt heavy, its quiet as oppressive as its darkness. He stood before her, as if caught in uncertainty, before tentatively settling his hands against her arms.

“Wanda, I need you to know how sorry I am.”

She froze, heart thumping wildly in her chest at his touch, at her anger.

He drew her close, wrapping his arms around her, sinking his fingers into her hair as she pressed her head against his chest. He was so familiar, so warm, that even her heart tempted her to give in, to stay, to say _yes, yes, yes._

He pulled back to look at her, his eyes glossed with tears.

“It was torture, being away from you, knowing that I couldn’t undo it all. I’m sorry it took so long to get you out.” It came out in a rush, his voice hardly more than a whisper.

His eyes were pleading, asking for forgiveness, for damnation, for anything. It dawned on her then, that this was his first taste of loss, of bitterness, of guilt. It softened her anger, settled her frustration into understanding, compassion.

Before she could think better of it, her lips were on his, blazing with weeks of fury, of loneliness. She’d missed him, the hard planes of his body pressed against hers, the way her heart felt whole when he was near. He was her tether, grounding her to the world when it all felt so distant, so lost. She needed him and she knew now, with the desperate way he pulled her close, mouth reckless in its pleads, that he needed her just as much.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

He sighed against her, breath heavy with exertion or restraint, she couldn’t tell. He traced the lines of her face, fingers feather-soft along her cheek, her brow.

She laced her arms around his neck, reveling in the feel of him against her, his body warm and hard and forgiving. Each touch of his was devout, pious in its dedication, its reverence.

His hands ghosted along her sides, reaching for the hem of her sweater, breaking his mouth’s trek along her neck just long enough to discard it. He whispered her name as his fingers wrapped around her waist, pulling her against him, his mouth descending upon hers, hungry with the passion of his loneliness, his want.

She burned under his touch, her desire fueled by his intensity, by the hardness she felt pressed against her hip. Her body had grown used to him, used to their nightly rituals: the weeks without him had been empty, fraught with resentment and isolation, a hollowness that called to be filled.

His lips against hers sparked like new, like the first time when she sought his company late at night, the tension between them melting over into a force that demanded recognition, release. That force pulsed within her now, humming in time with the beat of her heart, with the way his mouth moved against hers.

He guided her, knees grazing the bed before her back was to the mattress, his body pleasurably heavy against hers. His fingers rushed along the button of her pants, her hips arching to let him remove them, the desire to feel him against her skin making her frantic, hasty.

His motions were quick, charged with earnestness, and then she was bare before him. A flare of self-consciousness flooded her veins and burned hot in her face: her body had grown used to him, yes, but that felt like ages ago. That newness still buzzed heavy in the atmosphere, tempered only by the way she recognized the need in his eyes, felt the slight tremble of his fingers as he grazed her thighs. It was still him, and her heart sang with that realization: he still loved her, he still wanted her. This was real. The kindling of her love for him was stoked anew, a removal of the safeguards she’d built, an exposure that thrilled with vulnerability.

He phased away the simple clothes he wore, leaving behind the facade of nudes and pinks. It was strange to see him like this, this man that was and wasn’t the one she loved. And while her curiosity was piqued, she found herself yearning for him—flesh red and metal and ornate.

“Take it off?” She asked before his hands moved higher up her thighs. He paused.

“What?”

She reached up, his face cradled between her hands, letting her thumb trace along the patterns she knew laced his hollow of his cheek.

“This,” she answered, fingers tightening in time with her words. “I want _you_.”

He closed his eyes and she felt the hint of his soft smile. Slowly peach gave way to scarlet, soft light glinting along the filigree of his collar, his hips.

She caught herself giving a contended sigh: now it felt real, with him between her thighs, ready and familiar but with a new edge, something raw and undefined.

His mouth was on hers, rough and unrestrained. She couldn’t help but meet him with equal passion, equal vigor—this was need, unconstrained, teeth and nails, anger and resolution.

His fingers sought out her core, stroking her briefly before guiding himself inside her, coarse and hard, making him breathe words she’d never heard him speak before.

His thrusts were rigorous, unrefined, hitting that line between pleasure and pain, igniting her body to his presence, to her need for him. She’d never seen him lose control, not like this—it was a heady power that surged at the apex of her thighs, flames lapping at her nerves, beckoning her close to the edge.

He drew her close, breath hot against her hair, his grip stingingly tight in his rashness. She hitched her leg around his hip, granting him access deeper, harder. It was his muttered _oh my god_ , the surprise and pleasure of his voice, that set her off.

In the midst of that gratifying drowning she thought she felt him lose himself too, his hold on her bruising, as if willing their very atoms to merge.

When she re-emerged, she found him lying next to her, his fingers trailing over the curve of her shoulder, his eyes closed peacefully. His breathing was still heavy, his body still willing itself calm in the wake of endorphins.

She curled into him, tucking herself against his chest. The familiarity of his warmth, the movement of his breathing was a promise, a security that lulled her into peaceful sleep.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end.

It was the absence of noise that woke her, the steady thrum of melting snow coming to an end. The sky was dark, cloudless, melding into that time of night that drifts to stillness, a pause before the dawn.

So rarely she saw him sleep, his broad shoulders relaxed against the bed, chest rising and falling with steady breaths, that it was mesmerizing, like stumbling upon a fawn nestled in the grass. The slightest movement might wake him, breaking the spell of his stillness.

She lied motionless for a while, enjoying the way his skin was warm where it met hers, the way his arm lay draped across her. It was so _normal_ , this moment, making her feel like they existed in a different time, removed from the world in a hazy dream.

In time the temptation to touch him won out, her fingers following the sinews of his arm upward, appreciating the way muscle blended to metal. His breathing changed, and she felt his eyes on her before she met his gaze.

“Hi,” she breathed, hardly more than a whisper, the moment feeling so transculent she feared breaking it.

“Good morning,” her tone echoed back, the moment preserved. He brought his fingers to her hair, sifting through the waves that were wild with whiplash and sex. Downward his hand drifted, brushing along her neck, her collar, her ribs. She’d nearly forgotten the power of his touch, the way her body reacted to him, every neuron working in overdrive to sense him, feel him.

He let his hand settle on her hip, fingers splayed. She drew her arms around his neck, turning into him languorously, leg hitched over his thigh.

“I have missed you,” she said, pressing the words against his throat between the kisses she left there.

“I was unsure how you’d react to seeing me,” he admitted, eyes glancing sideward, pain visible in the pull of his mouth.

“Whatever the outcome,” he continued, “I needed you to know that I couldn’t stand by and let the world lose sight of you.”

She rested her head against the curve of his shoulder, letting the quiet settle while she considered his words.

“I was hoping it would be you.” The time spent apart felt smaller now, her body pressed against his as if weeks hadn’t passed. The knowledge that he’d aided Steve in their escape cooled the flame of her anger, letting it fizzle into something small, something belonging to the past.

He pulled her close to him, arms tight around her like desperation, like salvation. He pressed a kiss against her forehead before she felt him whisper, “I love you.”

The words threatened to steal her breath, lungs tightening with something like happiness, her eyes glossing with tears that came unbidden.

This was all new, this chapter in her life: removed from the Avengers, living clandestinely between missions with Steve. But loving Vision was a constant, the only constant she’d had in years. The weight of it was heavy, settling into her bones, saturating her heart with security, with hope.

“I love you, too,” the words were like breathing, automatic, natural—setting something lose inside her, crumbling the walls of her guard, her armor.

His eyes searched hers, the blue intense even in the dim lighting, before a smile broke across his face. It was happiness, triumphant, _new_ in a way that was exciting, elated. She couldn’t help but smile in response.

She watched his grin turn mischievous. “I just remembered, no one knows we’re here. Do you know what that means?” He cradled her head gently between his hands. “We don’t have to get out of bed,” he said, drawing her in for a kiss.


End file.
